The shock of what I discovered left me devastated. My anger, my heartbreak, my disappointment—it all collapsed in on me. We were over. Done. How could you do this to me, Chris? How?
I grabbed every t-shirt I had ever bought you and began to tear them apart, cutting and ripping them to pieces. I piled them in the center of the room. The perfumes, the creams I had gifted you—I threw them all in the trash. Your roommate caught a glimpse of my frenzy. He stood silently at the door, took one look at the pile of destroyed shirts and scattered colognes, and walked back into his room without saying a word. I think he knew. He must have known the kind of person you really were.
So all that anger you had toward me for chatting with another man? It wasn't really about me, was it? You were angry at yourself. Because deep down, you were doing the same. You projected your guilt onto me.
The love I had once believed in so fiercely—was gone, destroyed by your own hands.
From that day in 2006 to this very year, 2025, I've gone through so much. And nothing surprises me anymore. People's actions, their words—their double lives—none of it shocks me. If I had the wisdom I do now, back then? I wouldn't have even bothered destroying your things. I would've simply left, calmly, and told you I was bored. I'd let that silence haunt you forever.
But experience comes with time. And heartbreak leaves its mark.
After our explosive fight, I decided to leave your place and return home. I told myself not to cry in public. This was a small town—crying on the street would turn me into a local legend, "the girl crying alone." I composed myself and made my way back to my city.
When I arrived home, I slipped past my family, straight into the bathroom, then to my room. I knew I'd wake up the next morning with puffy eyes and have to explain. Damn you, Chris. What did I do to deserve this? I blamed myself the entire night.